


To Honor

by Awriterwrites



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Blood, Castles, Commander Styles, Hurt/Comfort, Kilts, Lieutenant Horan, Lieutenant Tomlinson, M/M, Scottish War for Independance au, Smut, Stirling Bridge, Swordfighting, Swords, Violence, War, did i mention kilts???, medieval scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:17:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Awriterwrites/pseuds/Awriterwrites
Summary: #46. It's Getting a Little HardEch day me comëth tydinges thre,For wel swithë sore ben he:The on is that Ich shal hennë,That other that Ich not whennë,The thriddë is my mestë carë,That Ich not whider Ich shal farë.****EachVery grievous are theyOne must go henceDo not know whenGreatest griefDo not know whither I must go-Unknown, Medieval English lyricsCommander Styles leads his men to victory, but at what cost?





	To Honor

**Author's Note:**

> My prompt was "#46. It's Getting a Little Hard", and I came up with something quite...unexpected. 
> 
> A note about the historical inaccuracies: I know they exist here. I followed a rough timeline of William Wallace's battle at Stirling Bridge, BUT I did take some creative liberties here. I was inspired by Braveheart and Outlander, after all. So...read this with that in the back of your mind. 
> 
> Special thanks to @twopoppies and @tvshows_addict for their beta work. The beautiful artwork here is from @twopoppies. This fic may be the last that she and I collaborate on and may be my last for awhile. I hope you enjoy it. Thanks for reading and for your support over the years. 
> 
> Title from the poem “The Wallace” written by fifteenth-century Scottish makar (poet/bard) who went by the name Blind Harry.

_ Till honour ennymyis is our haile entent, _

_ It has beyne seyne in thir tymys bywent. _

_ Our ald ennemys cummyn of Saxonys blud, _

_ That nevyr yeit to Scotland wald do gud. _

_ **** _

_ To honour enemies is our sole intention. _

_ It has been seen in past times, _

_ That our old enemies of Saxon blood, _

_ Have never yet done good to Scotland. _

****

The waning light from outside did little to illuminate the inside of the tent. Each corner was consumed with the black of encroaching night and every shadow spoke of horror, blood, and meager refuge from the raging howls of pain that echoed in Harry’s ears. From where Harry was standing, or rather,  _ pacing _ , he could barely see two feet in front of his face. 

“Light some fucking candles,” he growled.

Servants scrambled and soon the soft glow of candlelight filled the din, doing little to soothe Harry’s sour mood, or the battle that still raged within his mind. He wondered if he’d ever forget, if he’d ever find a way to forget, all that he’d seen. A small army of servants entered the tent just then, carrying cauldrons and kettles of boiling water, bringing with them the raucous cheers and jeers from the celebrating warriors outside. They began pouring the water into the iron tub that took up the center of the tent. Harry did his best to drown everything out, taking a goblet of wine that was offered to him and draining it in one long swallow. 

His muscles ached and the sting of far too many battle injuries scratched at his skin and fragile nerve endings — deliberate reminders of the horrors he had just survived. The grime and dirt from the battlefield stuck to his sweat drenched skin like a layer of clothing, and he wasn’t sure if the blood staining his hands was his own or the hundreds of men he had cut down that day.

Frayed and wild, like the ends of his battle worn kilt, Harry felt his heart thumping erratically in his chest, anticipating the arrival of his guest. He couldn’t rest, could barely  _ breathe _ , until he set his eyes on the pair of blue ones that echoed the North Sea of his homeland. He scratched manically at the matted hair on the side of his head, feeling the way his scalp itched with dried blood and grass from the fields near Stirling Bridge.

Where in God’s name  _ was _ he?

Something stirred in his gut then –– the ever present worry that had set up home in his stomach, his chest, since the day they first met. He had survived, hadn’t he? He’d made it out alive, didn’t he?

Harry was nearly sure of it, remembering how he had scanned the faces of his men as they marched back to camp that evening. He could  _ swear  _ he’d seen him, blood streaked and filthy, nearly unrecognizable, if it weren’t for the electric blue of his eyes.

All of the servants left the tent, save for two, the scent of juniper infused bathwater heavy and thick in the air. Harry closed his eyes and willed his heart to calm. When he opened them he was met with the intense gaze of the man he’d been thinking of for the better part of the last half hour.

“You came.”

“Where else would I go?”

His voice was light, but the tone heavy as the fatigue of battle stripped the words of their normally acerbic vigor, dragging them down deep into the soil beneath the tent floor. 

They stood still, on opposite sides of the shelter, staring into each other’s eyes. Harry could feel the electricity catch in the air between them, like a hay stack burning in a ravaged village. Hot and fierce, flames billowing into the sky above. 

“Come.” Harry ordered. Louis walked toward him, an invisible string pulling him closer to Harry.

When they were mere inches apart, Harry scanned Louis’ face, ignoring the swipes of dried blood and dirt, searching for signs of injury. Louis waited patiently, used to the routine by now. Harry watched his own hands, shaky, yet sure, as they unpinned the heavy wool at Louis’ shoulder. The fabric fell silently between them, baring Louis’ arms and chest. Harry’s fingers dropped over the cool skin of his lover’s chest, looking for scrapes, cuts, lacerations that would indicate any serious injury.

“I’m fine, commander,” Louis sighed, his breath sweet and familiar as it fanned over Harry’s face. 

“Not done yet,” Harry grunted, continuing his inspection.

The fabric, draped under the thick woolen plaid of Louis’ tunic, slipped through Harry’s fingers as he undid the pins that fastened the lower half of the kilt. The heated scent of battle and lust rose between them as the heavier fabrics that covered Louis’ bottom half fell to the floor. Harry wasn’t surprised to find Louis already half hard. 

“Bath.”

Louis went to complain, as he often did, but Harry shushed him by pushing him roughly towards the basin behind him. One of the servants rushed forward but Harry stopped him with a firm hand placed upright in the air. 

“Leave us.” His eyes never leaving Louis’. “No one is to enter.”

“Yes my Thane,” came the dutiful response, followed by a flash of light and noise and then blissful quiet enveloped them. 

Louis turned, giving Harry a scandalous view of his plump, toned backside. It was the only part of his body that wasn’t filthy and blood streaked. Harry itched to get his hands all over him, but especially all over his arse. He wanted to bury himself in it, over and over again — wanted to taste him there and do unspeakable things to him. 

But he was getting ahead of himself.

“Harry. This bath water is for you,” Louis finally managed to complain, although, Harry noticed, it was as he sunk his battered flesh into the silky, hot water. He hissed as he slipped into the tub, the water sloshing onto the silken carpet below, splashing up over his shoulders and around his neck. 

As Harry knelt down on one knee, cool air slipping under his kilt, he took the soft, lambswool cloth from the small table next to the bath and dipped his hands under the water. It was hot, almost scalding, but he knew Louis liked it like this, his eyes had slipped closed and his head lolled back on the metal rim.

Harry brought the wet cloth up to Louis’ head and squeezed the liquid out over the crown of his hair. Louis moaned, deep and rough, his eyes rolling to the back of his head beneath the lids. 

Harry did it again, if only to hear the sound of his beloved experiencing pure pleasure again. And again.

He gently wiped the traces of battle from Louis’ face, his neck, his ears, traveling south, over one hardened nipple and then the other. He asked him to lift one arm, then the other and then each leg in slow, sensuous succession. The cloth went beneath the water again and again and Harry bathed Louis with gentle hands and a methodical fastidiousness that came from years of planning intricate battles and missions that earned his troops hard earned information and yielded the results he was known for: ruthless, vicious, vengeful victory.

Harry’s calloused hands ran over smooth, oil softened skin that his lips followed. He kissed over scars, new and old, and found himself getting lost in the miracle of Louis’ body — his body that was whole, in perfect repair. 

By the time he was done, his battle clothes were drenched. Not that it mattered, he would be bathing soon as well. 

“Stand,” he finally said, gruff and slow, feeling the daze of arousal pulling at his resolve, chipping away at the veneer of control that he’d firmly held in place over the last several hours,  _ days _ , of battle. 

Louis pulled himself upright and turned so his back was to Harry. Harry inhaled sharply as he watched Louis move, nearly as slow as Harry’s voice, water dripping from every curve and crevice of his body, skin shining in the warm glow of candlelight. He looked like a mirage — shimmering and soft like an angel’s halo in the twilight. Harry swallowed thickly, the Lord above to give him strength. 

Standing to his full height, Harry brought the wet cloth up the backs of Louis’ thighs, over the swell of his full bottom and then up the line of his spine. Louis shivered and Harry gathered the sensation in his fingertips because he couldn’t help but reach out and  _ touch _ . 

“You are whole.”

“That I am, commander.” Louis looked over his shoulder, his eyes dark and his bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

Harry breathed a shuddery sigh of relief as he finished washing the man that shared his nights, his dreams, and the horrors of his every day with. Unable to help himself, he ran one long finger down the crack of Louis’ arse, dragging it over the edge of rough, yielding skin that begged entrance.

“You tease me,” Louis gasped.

“I don’t mean to,” Harry lied.

Louis turned then, flushed from the heat of the water, the leftover rush of battle, and the feeling of Harry’s hands touching him in such intimate ways. He crashed their mouths together, licking into Harry’s without warning.

Harry was, however, expecting it. 

Louis moaned and Harry swallowed the sound, taking it down into his being like night swallowing the day. He grabbed Louis’ face roughly, wanting nothing more than to pick him up, fling him down onto his furs and take him apart right then, dirty and rough, losing himself in the tan silk of the other man’s skin, forgetting all that he’d seen...all that he’d done. 

“My love!” Louis gasped when Harry grabbed fistfuls of flesh that made up his bountiful arse. 

Harry sucked on the curve of Louis’ sharp jaw, biting over the bone with barely veiled intention. He was desperate, threatening to unravel before he even bedded the man in his arms. 

“Bed,” he bit out harshly. 

Pushing at Louis’ shoulders, Harry manipulated the smaller man easily. Louis gave Harry a small, sly grin and stepped out of the water gracefully. He sauntered toward the supper table, an array of cheese and fruits and wines laid out for their consumption. He never did do what he was told, Harry found himself thinking as he stepped into the used water. 

Harry’s servants would bring him fresh water if he so desired. But tonight, like most nights with Louis, he was hurried and he felt somehow undeniably connected to him when the filth from their blood soaked days mingled like this, only to be washed away into the deep ravines that ran south of their camp, joining with the rest of the waste that left by way of latrine ditches. 

It was fitting in a way, that they could wash off the day and start anew, in each other’s arms, in each other’s grace, absolving one another from the sins of war with the sins of the flesh. 

Harry washed thoroughly, quickly, and stepped out of the water moments later. Louis stood, naked, at the table, still damp and staring as Harry dried himself with fresh lavender scented muslin that had been left for him. He slowly dragged the ivory fabric across his broad chest, between his legs, noting that his cock had not flagged all through his bath, and then down his legs. He watched Louis watch him, his eyes never straying from the movement of Harry’s hands.

Louis sucked on a grape, pulling it from the stem with the force of his lips. Harry’s cock leapt.

“You were stupid today.” Harry dropped the muslin on the floor and walked toward Louis. 

“Was I?” Another grape was procured devilishly between bright pink lips. “I wasn’t aware…”

Harry walked around the table, dismissing the idea to sit, eat, partake of nourishment, when his body craved another kind of sustenance. He hummed as he let his fingers trail over the small of Louis’ back, the pad of his thumb nearly catching at the dimples there. He slotted his body behind the smaller man and pressed his half hard cock into the cleft of his arse, pushing forward slightly. 

“You know you were,” he said darkly into Louis’ ear.

The only evidence that Louis had heard him was the way he tensed slightly, arching back into the heat of Harry’s body, arse nestling further into the cradle of Harry’s hips. Harry pulled him closer still, one hand on his hip, slipping over his belly, and the other coming to rest over the tender flesh of his neck. He could feel the bob of Louis’ adam’s apple under his palm as his throat worked. 

“I — I can’t…” Harry dropped his forehead to Louis’ shoulder, the events of the day whirring through his mind in a blood stained loop — the fury, the hate, the  _ violence _ . All that  _ blood _ . “I can’t —” 

Louis turned in his arms and kissed him, slow, wet, sweet — a direct contrast to the thoughts in Harry’s head. Harry could feel his arms snake around Louis’ middle and the way his body just seemed to fit against his –– legs, hips, chest. Cock. 

Lips slid against lips and tongues found each other and Louis tasted decadent, like grapes and wine and like  _ life  _ — he was  _ alive _ . Still alive and breathing, moving in Harry’s arms and sometimes it was so much when he let himself think like this, about all the what ifs that their life contained. 

“My darling,” Harry whispered against Louis’ mouth. 

Louis sighed and this time, his hands dropped to the muscular swell of Harry’s arse and he used delicate fingers to pull him closer, so close that Harry had a hard time understanding where he ended and Louis began, their bath damp skin sliding together like the silken fabric of the flags waving in victory on the battlefield just a few spare kilometers from where they stood. 

It was always with them, the war, never ceasing. Always in and around them, rattling around inside of them like a ghost in chains.

“Take me to bed, my commander.  _ I order you _ ,” Louis said around a coy grin, making Harry’s heart beat faster, his cock filling rapidly against the heat of the other man’s body.

“ _ You _ order  _ me _ ?” Harry felt his eyebrows raise, mouth quirking up in a grin without his approval. 

“You…” He kissed Louis deeply, moving him away from the table, toward the bed. 

“Order…” He picked Louis up by the back of the thighs and felt Louis’ mouth against his neck as he gasped and then pressed a searing, bruising kiss to his skin. 

“ _ Me _ ?” The sharp, bitter sting of arousal clawed at his skin, unfurling inside his gut — trapped, begging to be unleashed.

It took every ounce of restraint to lay Louis gently on top of the piles of furs and woolen blankets that bore the plaid of Harry’s clan. Harry crawled over him, mouth exploring the familiar lines, divots, scars and intimate places of Louis’ body that were known only to Harry. Louis sighed, relief and desire mixing together, like a drug in Harry’s ears. Louis tangled his fingers into the wet strands of Harry’s long hair, pulling him closer, closer, until they could kiss again.

“Do you think your men know what you do to me here,  _ commander _ , behind the billowing walls of this tent?” Louis’ voice was the embodiment of every seductress known to man, silky and smooth in Harry’s ear, making him want to  _ ensure  _ that his men heard what he was about to do to Louis. Every single thing.

A thrill ran through him as he spoke. “My men understand three things, darling.” Harry leaned over Louis’ nipples and he rolled one into his mouth, much like Louis did with those god-forsaken grapes moments before. He bit down on the erogenous flesh and delighted in the rough groan that ripped from Louis’ throat. 

“First, you are mine to do with what I wish.” He slipped lower, feeling the furs give way under his knees, muscles protesting. Yet he held himself up, intentions clear in his mind, his hands — his  _ cock _ . 

“Second, the men outside this tent, however frail it may be, understand that their commander has needs that only you, his  _ lieutenant _ , can see to.” He ran his tongue up the length of Louis’ thick, perfect, hard cock. 

“Christ above!” Louis yelled, throwing his head back against the pillows, arching his body, opening his legs wider, hands curling into the furs below him. 

Harry settled between his lover’s legs, opening them wider, pulling open his flesh so he could look into the most intimate part of the other man’s body. Louis gasped above him. Harry breathed hot and quick over his entrance. 

“Third, and the most important, is that…” Harry licked broadly over Louis’ quivering hole, the other man’s legs reflexively closing around Harry’s ears. Harry held him open, fingers indenting the soft, muscled skin of Louis’ inner thighs and arse cheeks. “No matter what happens, no matter where we go…” Another swirling, messy lick. “No matter what we do…” Harry’s lips sucked the edges of Louis’ rim into his mouth, inhaling deeply, savoring the  _ taste _ , the  _ smell  _ of Louis’ sex. “I will always, always,  _ fuck  _ you as I please.”

Louis cried out and dug his heels into Harry’s shoulders, pulling him closer. “ _ Please, please, please _ …” he called up to the heavens with wild abandon — clearly not caring who in Harry’s army heard them. 

Harry’s cock throbbed with the need to release as he buried his face further between his inamorato’s legs. 

“My love, my love, please…” Louis’ voice was desperate, pleading.

Delving deeper, deeper, inside Louis’ body, Harry closed his eyes and fought back tears as he brought Louis to the brink of ultimate pleasure. He fought back the memories of the day, the memories of the weeks, the months, the  _ years  _ of battle that they put behind them. In the early days, they fought side by side, soldiers in the same army and as Harry grew in his popularity, his status, Louis was always behind him, holding him up, keeping him steady. If it were not for Louis, Harry knew, with certainty, he would not be the man he was today.

“I will not last, my love!” Louis warned and Harry begrudgingly dragged himself away from the place he loved most in the world. 

“Are you in need of something, my darling?” Harry said with grit in his voice, as he sat up on his knees, wiping his mouth with the back of his scarred hand. 

Louis stared up at him, eyes burning in the flickering light. “I will always need you, my love. You and that magnificent…” He pushed himself up and wrapped delicate hands around the width of Harry’s leaking cock. “ _ Sword _ of yours.”

Harry’s entire body felt consumed by heat at Louis’ touch. Louis knew how to handle him, that was certain, the way he gripped Harry made him weak in the knees. 

“Neach-gaoil,” Harry breathed out.  _ My beloved _ . 

Harry reached for the basket next to their bed, blindly taking the apothecary vial that held the oil procured by the hands of the army’s herbalists. He looked deep into Louis’ eyes, watching the way his lover’s arms flexed as he handled Harry’s cock, hand moving smoothly up and down, the fingers of his other hand fondling Harry’s firm balls. Harry’s mouth was dry and his pulse beat steady and true in his ears. He found he could no longer hear the cry of war, replaced instead with the harsh breathing shared between two bodies that needed comfort from the living, comfort from each other. 

Louis took the oil and poured it generously over Harry’s cock. The thick substance shone golden in the candlelight as it dribbled over the veiny surface of his prick. “Ah!” Harry cried out, the lubricant making the slide of Louis’ clever hands that much smoother. 

“Want you in me, my love,” Louis whispered, pouring the oil over his own hand, tossing the bottle to the side carelessly.

Harry sat back on his haunches, watching dumbly as Louis thrust two fingers between his legs, parting his flesh abruptly. “Gods!” Louis shouted, reaching for Harry with his free hand as the other prepared his body for the length of Harry’s full cock.

Harry swiped a lazy tongue over his lower lip, tangling their fingers together. He could almost feel the heat of Louis surrounding him, and the sounds his betrothed made while writhing about in the luxury of their fur laden bed... _ bloody hell _ , it made Harry’s mind weak with the possibilities of the inevitable.

A lever flipped inside Harry, causing him to jerk forward and grab the oil himself. He doused his fingers and swatted Louis’ own hand away as the smaller man moaned in frustration. “Let me…”

Three fingers. Harry pushed three fingers deep inside Louis, knowing how well his lover preferred to be stretched, full and brimming with Harry — any part of Harry inside of him, be it his tongue, his fingers, his dick…

“My love, please!” Louis pleaded, fucking himself down on Harry’s hand, making Harry’s throat swell with how much he loved this man, loved his need, his desire, all of his wanton ambitions. 

Harry pulled his hand away, amazed at the way Louis’ hole stretched for him, waiting.  _ Wanting _ . 

More oil was applied and Harry ignored the fizzing of sparks that lit at the base of his spine when his hand closed around his cock. He could wait. He would wait, knowing that release inside the body and arms of his lover was incomparable to anything else. 

“My love, my love, love, love…” Louis babbled on and on, his voice high and raspy, the desperation clear as the light Harry held in his eyes for the man underneath him. 

Harry leaned forward and pressed fevered kisses across Louis’ face, finally thrusting his tongue deep into Louis’ mouth as he thrust his cock deep into his body. Louis arched off of the floor, driving Harry’s cock deeper, as he shouted out, cursing, “God above!”

Harry set a brutal pace, fucking Louis deep and hard from the start. He groaned in his lover’s ear, while Louis panted and scratched his nails down Harry’s back. Harry was vaguely aware of the pain as he chased his release, but more aware of the way Louis’ body clenched around him, moulded to his every part — the way he fit with Harry like no one else ever had. He focused on the way their sweat soaked torsos slid together and the way the golden light of the room bathed Louis in a soft glow that made him look as if he were forged in the heavens above, sent to earth to satisfy Harry’s every need.

“H — Harry!” Louis cried out, spilling violently between them. 

Harry was surprised, as it often took more coaxing to get Louis’ release from him, but today had been especially hard on them, the worst of the battles usually were. And they needed this, needed  _ each other,  _ more on those nights. They needed to find a reason to forge on, to wake another day and see past the horrors of war, to remember why they did what they did. Day in and day out.

“I — I can’t…” Harry felt tears spill from his eyes and he pushed inside, rocking deep, grinding forward into the heat, the  _ impossible heat _ , of Louis’ soft, yielding, pliant body. “It’s so hard, fighting every day and fearing for your safety,” he cried out, voice breaking with the pain that had found its way into the words. “My darling, it’s getting so hard, harder every day.” 

Louis shushed him with soft panting and praise in his ear, nipping at his lobe, hands flat on Harry’s arse, keeping him close. “Let go, my love. Let go.”

Harry did.

His orgasm was like reaching the crest of a hill, looking out over the beauty of his homeland, the moors, the endless sea, the green that could be found nowhere else in the world….it was vivid and beautiful and it made him weep like a child, the never ending feeling of release in it.  

He shook and spilled inside Louis, all the while, smelling the comfort of his clean hair and the dewy salt of his skin. He held himself up as he shook in the after-pleasure, kissing Louis deep, thorough, with a heat that spoke of how much Louis meant to him, how much he needed him. 

How much it would devastate him if he were to lose him.

“Shhh,” Louis soothed in his ear as Harry pulled out dropping to his side, weak and spent. Louis curled around him and ran light fingertips over Harry’s eyebrows, his nose, his chin.

“What makes you so sad, my love?” Louis said, finally, after their breathing had calmed.

Harry blinked and felt the burn behind his lids of yet more unshed tears. “I cannot go on like this. Not much longer. I —” he swallowed around his fear. “It’s getting hard — harder each day. To constantly battle with this fear in my chest...this fear over  _ losing  _ you. Louis, my darling, I —”

Louis was on him then, kissing him quiet and shushing him as their tears mingled on their faces. “I know, I know, I know,” he repeated, lips finding his, their shared kiss desperate and messy, need burning bright again as they groped at each other, eager to touch, to know that the other was still there, solid and real. As they always had been.

“It is getting harder, that is true…” Louis breathed into his mouth, their eyes searching one another. “But I’m here, Harry. I’m here. And you’re here. And there’s nothing —  _ nothing  _ that can change that, yes?”

He sounded as if he were trying to convince himself as much as he was trying to convince Harry.

Harry didn’t,  _ couldn’t _ , respond, so he kissed Louis instead. They kissed until the candles flickered out one by one and until Harry felt he could breathe again. He pulled one of the thick wool tartan blankets up around them and held Louis close. 

Somehow he knew there would be a moment. A moment when he stopped looking for Louis, just a fraction of a second, and he would disappear, fading like a star in the night sky. And for Harry, that fear, that crippling  _ fear  _ had taken up a home in his chest, disabling him like nothing his enemies had brought forward thus far. 

The fear of losing Louis was tearing him apart. 

It was making him mad.

And that realization made Harry nearly as terrified. For an unfocused,  _ mad _ , driven to distraction by lust,  _ love _ , for God’s sake...a commander afflicted as such could lead no one. Not even himself. 

****

Morning rolled in on a cold fog. 

The clammy chill collected on Harry’s skin and he ran his hands over his scarred arms to warm himself. The cold was second nature to the barren fields in this part of Scotland. The warrior’s camp was situated alongside the River Forth, at the place where the Highlands and Lowlands met in troubled union, the weather there unpredictable, tempestuous. Harry found himself getting used to it — to the way the cold settled in his bones and stayed with him throughout the day. It wasn’t all that different from home, yet the dampness had an edge to it that felt sharp, slicing through the skin like a knife. 

Wisps of damp air slithered through the worn seams of the tent and Harry refused to dwell on it, he had a battle to prepare for. He ordered his servants to dress him in his fresh battle kilt, their movement around him and the rough fabric warming him...his body thrumming with a familiar sense of dread, excitement, nerves and, above all else, bloodthirst.

He came to fight. He came to win.

“Send in my lieutenants,” he ordered. 

Harry stalked to the map that was crudely drawn by scouts, marked with pieces of coal from long burnt out logs that had warmed his soldiers well into many a night. 

The servants scattered, and soon the commander’s four lieutenants slipped inside the damp dwelling. Harry’s eyes found Louis’ and he inhaled deeply, Louis’ scent filling his nostrils, flashes of their evening before crowding his mind’s eye. Louis had left before morning fell, crawling back to his own tent, shared with his men. Harry had tossed and turned until light had slanted through the seams of his tent, restless without Louis’ solid warmth burning into his side.

“Commander,” Louis said with a nod, eyes cast downward.

“Lieutenant.” Harry wanted to force the other man to look up at him, to show him any sign of fear, of reluctance, so he could excuse him from battle. 

He knew he would find none. 

The other men waited for Harry’s instructions and so Harry gave them. He drew lines with his finger across the depiction of the lands all around them, showing where they would find the enemy. Early morning reports had indicated that the English had retreated, largely due to the hard fought battle yesterday, as well as the dismal state of their forces. Scottish spies had gathered that diminished food rations, supplies and capital had rendered the British forces weak, vulnerable. Their men had been cut down by half, more if you counted their wounded. 

Harry surmised that they could defeat their enemy well before the sun would set in the west that day. 

“Do not take foolish chances,” he warned, unable to stop his eyes from wandering, and then boring, into Louis’. “Our goal today is to defeat, without hesitation. And then, God willing, we will head home. Heads on our own pillows before nightfall.”

“Home…” Harry’s second lieutenant hummed happily. Niall was an amiable, but fierce, Irish lad who had joined their forces early on, eager to beat the English as much as the Scots were. 

“Our  _ reacquired  _ home,” Harry confirmed, sparing a small smile for his men, referencing their plans to massacre the English occupiers of nearby Stirling Castle, taking it back for Scotland, for  _ them _ . “I reckon we will be drunk on fine Scottish ale well before the English blood has dried on our very hands.”

The men let out a quiet cheer, the mood breaking from tense to unsettled anticipation.

Harry stood up straight, looking at the map once more. “Let us say a prayer of thanksgiving before we leave.”

Edwin, a copper headed lad who had proved competent in both battle and strategy, took his cue and led the small group in a short prayer, giving thanks for their safety both yesterday and today, and for all the days to come. 

“Amen,” they murmured, breaking rank and moving toward the exit.

All but Louis.

When it was just the two of them, alone, Louis approached Harry. 

“My love, please,” he implored, settling a warm hand on Harry’s forearm.

Harry turned away, searching for his shield. 

“Harry…” he could hear the question in Louis’ voice. 

A question for which Harry had no answers. 

_ “Say the word,” Harry had said, a prayer against Louis’ skin in the glow of candlelight. “Say the word and you will stay behind.” _

_ “You know I can’t.” Louis’ mouth had moved against Harry’s temple, his hands in Harry’s hair, body pressed close at every place possible.  _

_ “I can order it.” _

_ “You won’t.” _

_ The silence had been deafening as Harry felt a wild sense of hopelessness threaten to close his airway. “You — you will  _ live _ ,” he had ordered, a noticeable shake in his words.  _

_ “I will live, my love. I promise.”  _

_ Neither of them acknowledged that promises meant nothing during times of war.  _

Harry turned quickly and strode into Louis’ space in three long steps. “You  _ will  _ live.” His words were met with Louis’ mouth and he kissed him, hard, determined. 

Louis kissed him back, hands flying up to Harry’s back, pulling his shoulders closer so that they could feel one another inhale through the kiss, chests rising and falling, swallowing their fear at losing each other, losing themselves. 

“I will live.” Louis kissed Harry quickly, once more, his lips quick and wet. “And so shall you.”

Harry watched Louis’ blue eyes close briefly and then he was gone — blending into the noise and chaos as the men outside prepared for battle.

Harry exhaled shakily, pulling on his shield, taking his heavy sword in hand, his family crest at the hilt shining like a talisman. In the same way he slipped on his battle gear, he pulled on a steely resolve he wasn’t sure he possessed just a moment before. 

They would live.

Harry would see to it.

****

Blood. So much blood.

The English were few, but they fought til the bloody end. 

And they weren’t the only losers on the battlefield that day. The Scots lost too. 

It had been furious from the beginning, the English holding out hope that they would squash the Scottish pride, their willful, willful pride that made them rebel, made them fail to submit to the crown. But the Scots were stubborn, far more stubborn than the English had estimated. 

Harry pulled his sword from the chest of an enemy soldier, hearing the crack of ribs and the crunch of cartilage as the blade left his flesh, pouring bright red into the damp, rust scented air. He wiped the splatter away from his eyes and searched the field around him. All he could see were twisting, moving, violent bodies in chorus with one another, as if set to some grotesque score only they could hear. He didn’t have long to search before another was upon him.

“Aaargh!” The cry was hoarse and hateful, and Harry welcomed it.

Their blades clashed with a clang Harry felt in his toes, but he didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He fought, parrying back and forth with his opponent, who was worthy, but weak. There were at least three Scots to every Englishman.

Four seconds of vicious metal-on-metal ringing through the air ended when Harry knocked the soldier’s sword from his hand. The man looked at him for a moment, watery blue eyes hard, resolved when, instead of begging, he uttered two words: “My Lord.” 

Harry’s sword dove through his chest, swift and sure. Harry wouldn’t make him suffer. It wasn’t his way. He delivered his mercy quickly. Blood sputtered from the man’s mouth and he slid backward, off of the sword, landing on the crimson soaked earth like a branch from a tree. 

Catching his breath, Harry swiveled around and saw another soldier barreling toward him. He planted his feet as securely as he could, the mud like macabre quicksand beneath him, and he braced for the coming onslaught. Almost faster than the eye could track, their swords met, Harry caught off guard momentarily as his right foot slipped minutely. He rocked to the side and the enemy took the opportunity, diving forward, the point of his blade seeking contact.

Harry anticipated the move and dropped out of reach, rolling, face first into the iron tinged earth. The soldier was on him when Harry flipped to his front, feeling the hot, stale breath of the other man cover his face as he moved to straddle him, blade held high above his head. Harry had long lost his shield and his sword was just out of reach. Without thinking he bucked his hips and hit the other man dead on in the forehead — with his own head. The man fell off him, sword tumbling to the side and Harry seized the moment. He used the strength of his legs, backbending to a standing position and, grabbing his sword, the handle slippery with mud, blood and sweat, he delivered a fatal slice across the neck, severing the man’s head from his body.

His lifeless eyes stared up at Harry in judgement. 

Getting his bearings, Harry searched the field again. He could see his men cresting the hill, pouring in the valley where he stood, overtaking the remaining enemy troops easily. The battle would be over in moments. Every man in that god-forsaken field was covered in blood and the filth of the earth. It was nearly impossible to make out who was who, the only distinguishing feature being the kilts adorning the Scots’ bodies and the breeches on the English. 

Harry didn’t see  _ him  _ anywhere. 

Niall descended upon him, his face covered in blood, the only other color was the blue of his eyes. He had a wild, bordering on manic, grin on his face. “We bloody destroyed them, commander!” 

“That we did,” Harry answered gruffly, still looking out over the field for a small sign that Louis still lived. 

The foot soldiers were already scouring the ground, looking for the wounded, yet able, Scots that could be saved. The speared all others, English and Scot alike. 

“The troops are assembling on the west ridge, awaiting orders.”

Harry sighed, running a hand through his long, filthy hair. He knew his place, leading his men to Stirling Castle, to cheers and accolades — throngs of people, noble and servant alike — all of them would be waiting to congratulate them. They’d want to see the blood and gore on their faces, dripping from their bodies, their clothing. They’d want to hear the tales of death and destruction, down to every last bone crushed, every single body cast down.

His stomach twisted with nausea as he followed Niall away from the rivers of blood and the writhing bodies that begged for mercy. He searched frantically, looking at every face, every body that was perishing on the ground. Searching, searching, searching...none of them were Louis. With every step he took, Harry felt panic rising in his blood. Soon it would boil over, rendering him useless to lead his men, useless to even breathe.

Every bone in his body screamed at him to stay behind, to search. To find Louis.

Niall gestured at him as he lagged behind, stepping carefully around hordes of the dead. While it was true that there were more dead British on the field that day, there were still a fair amount of Scots. Harry felt his throat closing, choking on the tears that were starting to collect in his eyes. The fear over losing Louis buzzed in his ears like a thousand locusts and he felt weak in his knees.

_ You will live. _

“Commander?” Niall called to him from up ahead. Harry’s vision swam with unshed tears as he manically searched the faces that were frozen in anguished pain. “The men await.”

There was the hint of annoyance, urgency, in Niall’s voice. Harry’s eyes snapped up to his lieutenant’s. Niall walked back toward him, boots slipping in the mud. “If he still lives, the footmen will find him,” he said quietly once he reached Harry. 

Harry stared into Niall’s blue eyes wildly. “I —”

“They will find him. For now,” Niall squeezed Harry’s shoulder, digging his thumb into a deep laceration that jerked Harry into the present. “You must go.”

Harry swallowed thickly and stared first into Niall’s face and then back at the horizon. The mist in the air seem tinged red with blood, the entire world on fire. His heart burning bright in his chest, a raw, open gash that bled freely into the field that would become a burial ground to thousands.

Duty called. 

With a shaky inhale, Harry willed his feet to move.

The foot soldiers would do their job. And Harry would do his.

****

The road to Stirling Castle was flooded with Scots who had traveled from far and wide to the center of the country in celebration. Word had spread over the last week that the Scottish army, led by Commander Styles, was gaining traction against the English. People were thirsty for a victory, for the slaughter of their unwelcome guest — the English troops were despised, as their violence knew no boundaries. It was rivaled only by that of the Scots. 

The march past the revelers should have been joyous, yet Harry was filled with a sense of growing dread. Each face he passed looked dead, vacant, as empty as his own heart. None of them were his love. He saw no sign of Louis anywhere. 

He had instructed Niall to notify him immediately if Louis had been found. There had been no word yet. 

“Hail Commander Styles! Hail Commander Styles!” The cheers were too loud and too raucous, they felt out of place when Harry’s heart felt fractured, his soul heavy, weighted down with the fathomless worry that swam in his chest. 

The heads of the English military leaders and noblemen that had taken over the castle were displayed on spikes at the entry gates. It gave Harry no joy to see them. He wanted to lay hands on Louis, to inspect him, to ensure his safety. 

To hold him. 

The cheers faded as he was led inside the castle, his three remaining lieutenants following close behind. He could hear the soldiers that marched behind them shouting and calling out for ale, for women, for comfort. For the spoils of war.

Harry had no taste for any of those things. He felt thin and fragile, almost as if he could crack with one wrong, misplaced touch. He felt like he could dissolve into bitter tears that would take him into madness at the slightest breeze. He kept his eyes down, mouth set in a grim line, biting down on the inside of his cheek until he could taste blood. He wouldn’t fall apart now, not here, not with so many looking to him as a beacon of strength and courage. No, that was for later. For no one but himself. He wanted to remain strong, holding on to the last small ribbons of hope that bore witness in his heart. That would allow him to find private refuge.

He was led by servants to private quarters inside the castle, the damp stone walls doing little to soothe him. He was bathed perfunctorily and his wounds tended to, skin oiled and softened by skilled hands. He rebuffed advances from both male and female servants, too distracted to even think of anyone other than Louis. All the while he kept his eyes closed, willing himself to breathe, to just breathe.

His hair was detangled and dried with scented muslin and he was dressed in a clean kilt. When the servants were finally finished and gone he sat on the large feather bed. Alone. 

He gave himself permission to grieve the impossible.

What could have happened?

He  _ promised _ .

Anguish took over then, Harry’s face flooding with heat, tears pooling in his eyes as he entertained the notion, wildly, that Louis might have perished. 

What would Harry do if Louis were lost to him forever?

How would he survive?

He wept as he remembered the taste of Louis’ skin, the way his body felt when Harry held him close. He wept as he remembered the mirth in his ever-blue eyes and the way he held his wit like a weapon, brandishing it when it was needed most. And he wept over the way that his own heart felt cleaved in two, a pain like nothing he’d ever felt swallowing him whole, making him feel weak and broken in a way he didn’t think a man could break.

There came a harsh knock on the door and Harry’s heart lurched. The servant on the other side called through the door, “The court awaits, commander.”

Harry wiped his eyes angrily, cursing his status, his duty. 

The court.

All Harry wanted was to know what happened. To know whether Louis lived or lay, dead and cold, on the field with all of the other faceless soldiers that had been left to be claimed by the dark, awaiting burial for who knows how long. He choked back his anger once again at his duty, at the fact that he wasn’t allowed to grieve, to even mention the  _ possibility  _ of grief, when he was expected to present himself to the fine men and women of court and accept their praise, their gratitude.

Harry didn’t know if he could face them. 

He could barely face himself, knowing he let Louis go. He  _ allowed  _ him to go, head first into battle. 

The knock that came again was rougher, more urgent this time.

“Commander, I’m comin’ in.”

Niall.

Niall’s face was ruddy and Harry could smell the ale coming off of him from the nearly ten foot distance between them. His face was a mixture of pity and anger, amusement and celebration. 

“Ye have to face them, commander.” His brogue was stronger when he had the drink in him.

Harry exhaled and wiped at his face again, embarrassment flooding his cheeks. “I know,” he said dejectedly. “I know.”

“The footmen have come in for the night, the light has gone.” Niall leaned against the end of the four poster bed, his eyes studying his Commander. “They’ll be at it again at first light.”

Anger coursed through Harry. “They  _ what _ ? They — they must go back out. We don’t know if he — if there are men to be saved. We don’t know —”

Niall stepped into Harry’s space and put his hands on his shoulders, staring down into the depths of Harry’s eyes. “Commander. They’ve brought in the living. There is no one else.”

The words settled in Harry’s chest like a lead weight, sinking down into the pit of his stomach with a heavy certainty.

_ There is no one else.  _

Harry choked back a sob. “Missing. He must be —” 

The words hung between them, like a taunt. Harry knew he must sound rattled,  _ insane _ , but he couldn’t stop himself. The thought had taken root over the last hour and Harry refused to let it go.

“He’s missing. They’ve taken him. Surely that’s what’s happened.”

Niall blinked at Harry and inhaled deeply. “Commander.”

“No! No!” Harry bellowed, clearly startling the other man. Niall stepped back. “I will not give up.  _ He lives _ . I know it, I know it. I can feel it, I can —” His voice broke and he crumpled again. 

Niall patted him awkwardly on the shoulder, still keeping a safe distance. 

“I can feel it,” Harry whispered, his chest aching with an immeasurable pain, eyes looking wildly around the room. 

“We will begin a search at first light,” Niall said, resolutely, his willingness to placate his commander as strong as his will to live. 

Harry nodded furiously, his head swimming and heart drowning. 

“In the morning...in the morning,” Harry mumbled as he dropped to the pillows, exhaustion and unbearable sadness claiming him, dragging him under. 

Louis was alive. Harry was sure of it. He had to be.

****

Harry was pacing at the entrance of the Great Hall. He’d been doing so since the cock crowed before the sun crossed the horizon. He had been awake well before then.

He dressed in fresh battle clothes, his family plaid crisp against his thighs, his polished shield and sword in hand. His leather boots crinkled and squeaked with every step and he waited.

And waited.

Finally, as light began to spill through the windows, Niall and a small band of soldiers made their way down the stairs in rowdy pairs. They were swilling ale and tossing big mouthfuls of oatcakes and pear jam into their mouths. As sure as they left a trail of crumbs in their wake their voices carried to even the most remote parts of the castle. 

Harry wanted to crack their skulls together. 

The morning scratched at his eyeballs, tenuous, far too cheerful for Harry’s liking. He felt like he could crawl right out of his skin. He wanted to  _ move _ .  _ Needed  _ to move, to seek Louis out, to find him and bring him home. It didn’t matter where home was or what condition he found Louis in, Harry just knew he needed to find him. 

“Soldiers!” Harry bellowed into the hallowed hall, the sound of his voice booming off of every stone surface. 

The men screeched to a halt, hands dropping to their sides, seemingly startled by their commander’s appearance. Goblets were laid on tabletops and the remains of breakfast cast aside. Harry scowled down at his men. Where was their sense of decorum, of urgency? Louis could be dead. He could be alone, cold and starving, injured, perhaps. And these men —  _ Harry’s men _ — dared to eat and drink and... _ laugh _ .

“We leave this minute!” Harry growled, turning on his heel and pushing through the castle doors. He held his tongue, keeping the lashing inside his chest, holding onto it until he would need it again.  

They were given horses, well groomed and fed, prepared for a journey of dubious length. Harry took up the lead, his black mare gleaming in the early morning sun. He rested his hand on the hilt of his sword and began scanning the horizon immediately. He knew his Louis. Knew the way his clever mind worked, and he knew he would leave him clues if he were alive. 

He just had to know where to look for them. 

Niall came up alongside Harry and confided, “The footmen are preparing the men for burial. Initial reports indicate the Lieutenant Tomlinson was not among the dead, my liege.” 

Harry nodded, feeling an eerie sense of certainty come over him. If he had not been found, dead, on the battlefield, Harry was even more certain that his suspicions were accurate — Louis had been captured. He felt his lungs burn as he tried to stay calm. He wanted to rip Louis’ captors to shreds. He wanted to make them pay, with their blood. With their heads. 

Inhaling the dewy scent of earth and ashes from fires burning along the road, Harry narrowed his eyes and scanned the horizon. An overwhelming fear clogged his throat and he stifled the urge to scream out his frustration. It would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. 

Louis could be  _ anywhere _ .

Niall rode up alongside him and gave him a cautious glance. Harry could feel the other man’s eyes boring into the side of his face. “Commander?”

Harry didn’t answer, blinking back tears as he stared ahead, mind scrambling to think of where Louis could be. What sort of clues he would leave. 

“Commander.” Niall spoke louder, more forcefully.

“What is it?” Harry bit out, tasting bile rising in his throat as his stomach lurched violently.

“We should split up. Cover more ground.” 

Harry’s eyes flicked over to Niall and then back to the road ahead. They were skirting alongside the battlefield from yesterday, the stench of the dead starting to rise in the morning mist. “Aye,” he agreed, holding in all the words he wanted to unleash. Words like  _ devastated _ ,  _ destroy,  _ and  _ fear _ . 

Pulling on the reins of his horse, Harry came to a stop in the middle of a clearing, the spring green grass new and full of promise. Niall halted next to him, the two of them alone for a moment while the other soldiers caught up. Harry could feel his shoulders around his neck, scrunched and tight, the weight of what was at stake heavy around his neck like a noose. 

He looked at Niall and found the other man watching him carefully with cautious eyes. “Commander?”

“Lieutenant Horan. You are a loyal, faithful servant to the crown of Scotland, are you not?”

“Aye. Ye know I am.” Niall corralled his horse, staying close to Harry.

“What I tell you now is being shared in the greatest of confidence.” Harry inhaled through his nose and felt his brow furrow as he gathered the courage to speak the words heavy upon his heart. 

“Aye.” Niall bit down on his bottom lip, worry spanning his face as sure at the map of Ireland upon his fair, freckled features. 

Harry knew he could trust Niall. Of all his lieutenants, aside from Louis, Niall was the one Harry had always relied on — even thinking of him as a confidante, on occasion. Yet, Niall never crossed the arbitrary boundaries Harry set between them, always remembering his place. The evening before, when Harry was so bereft with grief, with confusion and worry, Niall had stayed with him while he slept. He woke him after some time and summoned servants to help him ready to face the court. He urged him on, coaxed him to put on a brave face, one worthy of adulation and confidence. He stayed at his side while he shook hands and kissed cheeks and bowed before noblemen and women. Niall spoke on his behalf, when he couldn’t find words, and he ushered him back to his rooms when he’d done the bare minimum.

Niall could be trusted. 

“No matter what happens — no matter what happens to  _ me _ ,” Harry clarified, “The objective is to find and  _ save  _ Lieutenant Tomlinson.” 

Niall stared at Harry and considered his words. “Commander, I —”

“Our mission is to save Lieutenant Tomlinson. I don’t care what happens to me.” He spit the words out vehemently and then swallowed thickly and pressed Niall further. “The only thing that matters today is that we save Louis.” The last words were whispered, shared between them on a damp breeze. 

Niall nodded and opened his mouth to speak, but he couldn’t finish as the others were upon them then. 

“Am I clear, lieutenant?” Harry regained his composure and spoke in a strong, steady tone. 

“Aye, Commander.” Niall lowered his eyes but peered up at Harry through his downward gaze. “Aye,” he said again, softer this time, assuring Harry that he did, indeed, understand.

There were 24 soldiers awaiting orders and Harry gave them. He parceled them off into groups of four to spread out around the battlefield. He considered the time of nightfall, the unraveling of the British troops, and the timing that would have made it possible for Louis to have been taken into enemy hands. He surmised that their opponents couldn’t have gotten more than a few kilometers on foot, a few more had they been on horseback. It was just after sunrise so Harry had an advantage in that they were already on the move, when the British were most likely just starting to pack up camp. 

“Who will accompany you, my Thane?” Niall asked suspiciously.

Harry expected this. “I will go alone.”

There was a murmur among the men but Harry silenced them with one arm held high in the air, fist closed, muscles flexed. The men fell silent. 

“We will meet at the north end of the battlefield when the sun is at its apex,” he bellowed. “We will find Lieutenant Tomlinson and we will be victorious!” As far as motivating speeches went, it was weak, but Harry put as much conviction into his words as he could.

There were a few doubtful glances around the crowd but most of the men were dutiful soldiers and they nodded and looked earnestly at their commander. Most of them took their instructions like air into their lungs, so they took Harry’s words as law. Niall’s face had reddened and his mouth was set in a grim line. The others were coalescing into their groups and the leaders among them were already barking out orders. Harry huffed out a frustrated breath when he noticed Niall lingering behind. 

“Lieutenant —” 

“I will not stop ye from such foolery,” Niall interrupted, setting a warm, gloved hand on Harry’s arm. “I will, however, wish ye God’s speed and I promise ye, my liege, that I will do everything in my power to bring him home to ye.” 

Harry felt his chest ache and his eyes prickle with bitter, unshed tears.  _ Bring Louis home _ ,  _ to me,  _ he thought.  _ Home _ . He gave Niall a short nod, not trusting his voice, and, with one last glance into his lieutenant’s blue gaze, a hundred unspoken words passed between them, and Harry urged his horse forward. He hoped, with all his heart and soul, that bringing Louis home meant bringing him back alive and whole. 

The alternative turned Harry’s insides to liquid and filled him with a dread that threatened to steal the sun from the sky. 

****

The sun was climbing high in the sky with each passing moment and still, Harry hadn’t seen nor heard anything. His heart was beating frantically in his chest, aware of the growing distance between him and Louis’ captors. He needed something — anything...to help him find Louis. A clue. A footprint, a smoke signal.  _ Something _ . 

He spied a creek ahead and steered his horse toward it. They’d ridden, hard, for the better part of four hours and hadn’t stopped once. The horse needed a break and so did Harry. 

The path he was on was hobbled with stones and rocks that were a fixture in the landscape here. The thick forests that gave way to open glens and valleys were lovely to look at but hell for farming. Just as Harry was about to dismount, he heard the tell tale sound of an arrow whizzing through the quiet forest. He didn’t hesitate, instincts kicking in, and jumped from the horse, rolling onto the ground in a tucked ball, arms and legs drawn close, crying out as jagged stones scraped at his skin. 

Harry searched frantically for cover, while also scanning the treeline for his enemy. 

Another arrow landed with frightening speed next to his head. He rolled behind a boulder, pulling his shield over his back while he grabbed for his sword. He could barely spare a moment to think as he watched his horse barrel through the creek, neighing loudly as it ran toward the forest beyond. 

“Show yourself!” Harry shouted, keeping himself covered while his ears strained to hear the direction the assailant came from. “Show yourself and I’ll ensure you won’t suffer.”

Harry heard a faint crack coming from the forest floor to his left and he whipped around to find the source. 

A war cry sounded from behind him and Harry pivoted, knees cracking with the effort and watched, in horror, as five British soldiers raced toward him. Their uniforms were dirty, tattered and bloodstained and their eyes looked wild with venom. They looked at him with malicious intent and it struck him how bloody stupid it had been to go off on his own. He’d wanted to time to think, time to focus on zeroing in on Louis and Louis alone. If he’d have stayed with his men he would have been Commander Styles — and not Harry, Louis’ one true love.

He could see what a mistake that was now.

Harry growled, “Come on!” And met his first opponent with a deafening crack of metal on metal. The man was momentarily stunned, which gave Harry a precious second to parry and inflict a fatal slice across the neck. 

Two other soldiers were on him then and he registered the movement with detached calculation. If he could just get in front of them, and tire them enough, he could strike them down. 

The soldiers were probably deserters who had left the retreating fleet, lost from their brethren in the Scottish wilderness. At least that was what Harry was hoping for, he knew he couldn’t take on any more soldiers single handedly. 

Back and forth they fought while Harry kept an eye on the other two soldiers, who were circling him, like vultures, undoubtedly looking for the perfect moment to strike. The two in front of him pressed in closer and closer and Harry could see fatigue starting to show in their movements, but he was weak too, four against one did not bode well for his chances.

“Bloody Harry Styles, aren’t you? What a nice reward we’ll get when we bring your head to the King, won’t we, lads?” One of the soldiers sneered, joining the other two in delivering a series of threatening jabs of his blade. 

Three against one.

Harry sent a silent prayer to whatever god was listening to help him find strength. His eyes burned with the effort it was taking to concentrate and only one word echoed in his mind. 

_ Louis, Louis, Louis. _

He had to get free so he could find Louis. 

Harry lost sight of the fourth soldier for just a moment. But that’s all it took.

He felt a sharp, stinging pain and looked down to see that his arm had been sliced, blood pouring freely from the wound. It wasn’t a scratch — the skin flayed open like a piece of meat and he idly thought it would need stitches.

If he survived. 

Now all four soldiers were engaged and Harry was dizzy with the effort it was taking to keep track of them while also fending them off. Just then, one of the soldiers tripped up on one of Scotland’s glorious pieces of fused earth, stone and bramble that covered the land like jewels spilling from the King of England’s coffers. Harry used the moment to lunge forward, but he misjudged his opponents, one of them using his distraction to rush Harry, backing him against the side of the stone mountain on the far side of the glen.

“Say your prayers you filthy piece of shite,” the soldier hissed, his breath foul and the stench of old battle and filth pouring off him in fetid waves. “I promise you this will not be fast.” 

Harry looked from face to face, hedging his options and came up empty. This couldn’t be it. He’d come so far, fought far more worthy opponents and came out victorious every time. 

This couldn’t be how he met his end.

He fought off the men with renewed ferocity, thinking if he was going to die he wasn’t going to go easily. He delivered a terrific smack with the flat of his blade to one of the soldier’s hands, the force of it shaking his sword free. The man yowled in pain and staggered backward, falling and hitting his head on a sizeable boulder, passing out cold, giving Harry a bit of reprieve. 

It didn’t last long.

The two soldiers doubled their efforts and Harry could feel sweat pouring down his back and his arm burned from the deep gash. It was his sword hand, so every movement made blood pour more freely, he could feel it soaking his shirt and into his leathers. One of the soldiers used his weakness and found a way to make Harry jerk his arm backward and it banged into a rock that jutted out from the facade of the mountain.

Harry dropped his sword in a scream. 

The pain was blinding, but it didn’t compare to the paralyzing fear that crept into Harry’s chest like a worm burrowing into the earth on a damp spring morning. Harry was about to shut his eyes and succumb, the bright, vivid blue of Louis’ eyes boring into his brain, the sound of his voice blazing in his ears, the feel of Louis’ skin under his fingertips. He was about to utter the name of the only man he loved, his life, his love...Louis, when…

“Harry!”

There was a blur of movement and Harry saw a sword flying through the air and he reached up and caught it. 

“Bloody hell, Harry, what in God’s name are you doing?”

Harry could hardly believe his ears, for a moment he thought he had died, and that he was in heaven. Louis was alive. Louis was alive and brandishing his own sword and fighting back one of the soldiers with his side pressed to Harry’s. 

“Wha — Louis!”

“We’ve established that…” Louis’ blade cut into the side of the Englishman’s waist, ripping open the red coat and skin beneath. The soldier staggered but stayed upright. “Why are you letting these fucking bastards best you?”

“I —” Harry felt something surge beneath his ribcage and his mind soared with the possibilities. Louis was alive.

Alive.

“I’m about to save your arse,” Harry shouted cheekily, hearing the most beautiful sound of his life. Louis laughed. Like a soft breeze in a fragrant meadow — Louis laughed.

“Looks to be the other way around, mate,” Louis teased, his sword finally landing its mark, piercing the injured soldier’s chest, directly to the heart, the effect immediate. The man crumpled to the ground and Louis withdrew his blade, quickly turning to engage one of the soldiers Harry was fighting.  

 

 

Harry was glad to have only one assailant — it felt almost...easy. 

They fought together, in tandem, in sync with one another, the way they always did. Fluid, like molten iron and steel, the two men moved side by side, rapidly dispensing of their enemy. The remaining soldier lay unconscious and Harry let him lie, certain that, if he woke, he’d bother them no more. The four corpses of his fellow soldiers would probably be enough to curtail him. 

Finally,  _ finally _ , Harry turned toward Louis. He was dirty, filthy even, dirt and blood and sweat covering every inch of him. His clothes were torn and his hair was sticking up at odd angles, bits of pine needle and grass tangled in the silky strands, but to Harry he never looked more beautiful. More alive. 

“Louis.”

“ _ Commander _ .”

Harry stared deep into Louis’ eyes, the man he thought he lost, the other half of his soul. “I thought — I thought you were —”

Louis stared back and his eyes slowly filled with tears. “I’m here. I’m here,” he whispered, falling into Harry’s arms. 

Harry dragged him closer, feeling the skin of his injured bicep protest, the flow of blood starting again at the disturbance. “You’re alive.” The words came out on an exhale and Harry felt relief course through him. 

“I am,” Louis said against his neck, wrapping his arms around him tighter, almost so tight Harry thought he’d lose his breath. If he weren’t breathless enough from the exertion of battle and learning that Louis still lived. 

Louis pulled away too soon and looked up at Harry. Harry thought his heart would burst from his chest. “Good thing I came along,” Louis said with an arched eyebrow.

“You — I was looking for  _ you _ !” Harry said, affronted. “I was trying to save  _ you _ .”

“Sorry, my love, it appears to be the other way around.”

Harry gaped at Louis but couldn’t find it within himself to argue. Louis was alive. 

They would argue another day. They would see another day. Together. 

****

Louis had been held captive for several long hours, overnight. He was taken near the end of the battle, when the band of soldiers realised that they were losing and that Louis was a lieutenant in Commander Styles’ army. They thought they could gain favor with their own commander, despite their desertion, by bringing Louis to him for information. Or worse. 

Just before Harry and his horse trotted into the glen, where he was ambushed, Louis had broken free from his captors and was plotting his course to Stirling Castle. That’s when he heard it. 

The unmistakeable sound of Harry in battle.

Louis knew that sound nearly as well as the sound of Harry crying out in his arms under the spell of release that only lovers could speak of. 

So, in the end, Harry had to admit that yes, in fact, Louis had saved him. It cost him his pride but it was worth the expense to have Louis back in his keep, back in his arms. 

Except…

They barely had a moment together when Niall and his men emerged from the woods. Niall cheered loud enough that Harry was sure the soldiers all the way over the channel in England could hear him. From there it was back to the castle — a hurried, frantic journey, where Louis ended up on the back of Niall’s horse as it was the largest, most sturdy of the fleet — driving Harry mad with the way his arse jiggled with each bounce of the horse’s galloping legs. The way his laugh carried on the wind sounded like the finest lyre Harry had ever heard, and it nearly brought him to tears.  

Harry was half hard by the time they made it back to the castle, his need like a curse, making him single minded, incapable of focusing on anything else. After another brief hero’s welcome, they were greeted by a small army of servants with orders to take them for medical attention and bathing. There would be another celebration, for there was nothing the nobles enjoyed more. Especially if it was over something they hadn’t dirtied their hands for. 

Harry’s arm was throbbing, the wound in need of care, but he ignored it, desiring something else in the moment, his heart racing and mind zeroed in on the curve of Louis’ jaw, the spectacular line of his spine when the moonlight ran over it like a caress.

“Halt!” Harry called out to the group of servants pulling Louis away from him, so  _ far  _ away from him. They were halfway down the hallway leading from the great hall to the main stairwell, when Harry ordered them, his mouth finally catching up with his mind, his  _ cock _ . 

The servants stopped immediately, bowing their heads in respect. Louis turned slowly, a small smirk on his lips and an arch on his brow. 

It was maddening.

“Lieutenant. I need to speak to you,” Harry said gruffly. He cleared his throat, trying to mask the need that made his knees threaten to collapse. “To debrief. Your entrapment...” he added dumbly, trailing off when he couldn’t quite come up with the rest of the words to make his flimsy order plausible. 

Louis gave him another knowing smirk and walked toward him, entirely too slow for Harry’s liking. The servants turned and climbed the stairwell, leaving the two of them blissfully alone in the privacy of the shadowy hallway. 

Harry crowded into Louis’ space immediately, smelling his scent and feeling the heat of his body covering every inch of him.

“You live. You’re — you’re alive,” Harry murmured against Louis’ lips. Louis wrapped one hand into the tangled mess of Harry’s hair and lay the other gently on Harry’s cheek. 

“Aye. I was terrified,” Louis admitted, their noses rubbing, mouths open in an exchange of breath and desire.

Harry drew back, searching his lover’s eyes. 

“Not of my captors,” Louis clarified, swallowing thickly, “I was afraid of losing you, my love, I feared I’d never lay eyes upon you again. And that —” Louis’ voice was raw with emotion. “And that would have killed me.”

Harry couldn’t find the words to describe to Louis how truly scared he had been, how he would have given his own life to find Louis. He couldn’t find any words in English or his mother tongue to tell Louis how much he meant to him, how much he  _ needed  _ him, missed him — how thankful he was to have found him — so much it hurt. So he did the next best thing.

“Louis,” he growled, deep in his throat as he swooped Louis up into his arms, hands gripping the backs of his thighs, slipping over the full swell of his arse so that he could hoist him up and around his waist. His fingers dug into the meaty flesh of his arse and he breathed out, solemnly, “S tusa gràdh mo bheatha.”  _ You are the love of my life. _

 

_ _

 

Louis let out a small sound of surprise, but he seemed to remember himself quickly, pulling at Harry’s hair and bringing their lips together. “And you,” he said between desperate kisses, “are mine”.

Harry could feel the hot skin of Louis’ body against his palms and it made him dizzy with want. He licked into Louis’ mouth with wild abandon, the taste,  _ feel _ , of him like liquor sliding down his throat, hot and bittersweet, burning in the best possible way. The warmth of Louis filled him, inside, and covered him like the glow of firelight on the worst weather Scotland could spit at them.

They were together. That was all that mattered.

The kiss was filthy and desperate from the start, the feel of Louis’ firm body against his own was everything Harry could possibly want. In this lifetime and the next.

“You light my blood on fire, like a thousand suns burning me from the inside out.” The words were hot and fevered, pressed against the column of Louis’ neck. 

“My love, my darling, I want you...want you inside me, it’s all I’ve thought about since we parted ways. Since I was taken from you,” Louis whined, the words like a brand to Harry’s heart. 

Pure desperation seared Harry in the way nothing else could. Louis made a high desperate sound then that had Harry’s cock filling greedily. The only thoughts in his head were  _ mine _ and  _ please _ .

A loud cough came from behind them and Harry went into high alert immediately, dropping Louis to his feet, shielding him. He needn’t have worried though, as it was only Niall. With a shite-eating grin on his face. 

“Commander, Lieutenant Tomlinson.” He addressed them formally.

“What is it?” Harry barked angrily, fully aware of his cock tenting the front of his kilt.

Niall coughed into his fist, trying to hide a smile, quite unsuccessfully. “Your presence is requested in the great hall, commander.”

“Whatever for?” Harry nearly whined. 

All Harry knew was that his presence was required wherever Louis was. Not to mention Louis’ mouth. His face. His arse. His cock. All of him, really, Harry needed all of him. Having nearly lost him made Harry feel as if his world view had tilted on its axis somehow, and now,  _ now  _ he wouldn’t be without him. So help him, he wouldn’t.

“A dinner, my liege, in your honor.”

Harry exhaled dramatically, feeling Louis’ body shake behind him in silent laughter. “Fecking hell, Niall. Tell the jobby bawbags to wait.”

Niall dropped his hand and gave them the full force of his mirth. “As you wish, commander.” 

With that, Niall turned on his heel and marched back toward the great hall. Harry hung his head and took a deep breath, trying to calm his frantic breathing and the way his body felt like it was in flames, the arousal so great, so all encompassing. 

“Darling,” Louis said quietly, running soft fingers over the broad expanse of Harry’s shoulders. He faced him again and looked deeply into Harry’s eyes. Harry shivered at the intensity of it, wanting nothing more than to resume his former activities.

Harry dropped his forehead to Louis’ and took another series of calming breaths. Louis kissed the side of him mouth. “It will be sweeter this way,” he whispered. “We will have all night instead of this stolen moment.” 

“But…” Harry groaned and tried to still his hips that were seeking friction from the heat of Louis’ body. 

Louis pressed a finger to Harry’s lips and said darkly. “If you can be patient, darling, I’ll even ride you tonight.”

Harry jerked involuntarily and felt his cock leap between his legs. God in heaven, this man was too much. 

While Harry was contemplating the merits of waiting versus having his way with Louis right here, right now, in the middle of the hallway where anyone could walk in on them, Louis took his dumbfounded silence as assent and turned on his muscled leg to saunter up the stairs. 

All Harry could do was watch the magnificent swell of his lover’s arse and cup his own cock in a desperate plea to behave itself.

****

Harry was watching Louis across the great room, a polished silver goblet in one hand, the other shaking yet another boring snob’s soft, uncalloused hand. Harry’s body ached for him. One part in particular. 

“Commander?” 

“Hm?” Harry sighed and turned his attention back to the group standing before him. 

Niall gave him a small knowing grin. “The fine Duke here was remarking on the speed with which  _ you  _ rescued Lieutenant Tomlinson.”

Harry screwed up his face and grimaced at his lieutenant. “Aye.”

“It really is remarkable how quickly  _ you  _ were able to save Tomlinson, wasn’t it?” Niall repeated, needling Harry mercilessly, making Harry want to slap his wide grin clean off his Èireannach face.

Harry wasn’t really paying attention, though, Louis was crossing the room, his kilt moving softly around his muscled thighs, inching up and then back down with each step. He had eschewed wearing the typical layers of leathers and furs for a simple ivory shirt that lay open invitingly at the throat. It was practically see through and even from more than 20 feet away Harry could see his dark, rosy nipples. 

“Excuse me,” Harry mumbled, ignoring Niall’s snort. 

He strode across the room and met Louis halfway. Louis smelled like pine and the soft scent of calendula that the servants favored at the castle. “And where do you think you’re going, lieutenant?” 

Harry couldn’t help the small smirk that took over his lips. He’d been doing his best to keep a respectable distance, to let Louis drink and be merry after his ordeal. But he found he couldn’t anymore. Didn’t want to — couldn’t possibly be expected to stay away any longer.

Louis looked up at him through dark eyelashes and his cheeks glowed the most lovely, soft shade of pink. “I’m feeling a wee bit peckish after my exertion over saving  _ you  _ today.” He paused, biting back a grin before he continued. “I believe I’ll retire to my quarters for the evening.  _ Commander _ .”

“Ah, well then,” Harry smiled down at him fondly, letting the jab slide. “Don’t let me stop you. Think I’ll…” he stretched his arms over head, faking a deep yawn. Louis watched him and Harry saw him swallow thickly, his eyes wide and watchful. “Think I’ll retire shortly as well.”

“Hm,” Louis hummed. “You should. You look positively…” he leaned into Harry’s space and whispered darkly into his ear, “knackered.”

Harry suppressed a chill and swallowed. “Aye,” he said feebly.

And then Louis was gone, breezing past him and up the stone staircase, headed for his rooms. It was an all too familiar sight, Louis’ arse disappearing, floating away from him like a fantastic dream, Harry thought, one that he meant to experience awake. Awake and fully aware of just how spectacular — and treasured — it was.

He gave Louis a few moments, enough to appear respectable, but then he was mumbling his apologies, racing after him. 

When he got to Louis’ rooms he found them empty and for a moment, his heart leapt into his throat with phantom pain, the fear of losing Louis like a nightmare that refused to be quelled. He jogged back down the hall to his own suite and opened the door abruptly, stopping dead in the doorway. 

The sight before him was sent from the heavens above. 

Louis was laying on his bed, his shirt gone, kilt bunched up around his waist, arse up in the air, two fingers deep in his entrance. He flicked his gaze over to Harry impatiently and he said, breathily, “Took you long enough.”

Harry slammed the door, locking it hastily, and ripped his leathers from his body, kilt following, nearly puncturing himself with the sharp needle of his brooch.

“Bloody Christ above,” he breathed, mouth dry, cock leaking embarrassingly between his legs.

Louis arched his back and moaned, Harry was nearly positive it was mostly for show — but he also knew his inamorata when he was desperate like this. Insatiable. Nearly  _ lewd  _ with how much he liked to  _ be watched _ .  

“Louis,” Harry groaned leaning onto the mattress so he could claim Louis’ mouth. 

It had been too long since he had tasted him. He was delicious. Sweet and delicate, the faintest taste of ale lingering behind each breath. The kiss quickly devolved into a biting mess of lips and teeth and Louis pushed Harry to his back. He was flushed and a fine sheen of sweat covered the golden skin of his chest and abdomen.

Louis’ hands were everywhere as they kissed, and so were Harry’s, relearning every inch of one another, the loss of a day too much for them. Harry gasped when Louis gripped his length, his fist tight yet measured, the perfect size for Harry’s width. Slowly, Louis glided up and down, up and down, the feeling dry and almost painful, but it did nothing to curtail Harry’s imminent release that was building like an inferno at the base of his spine. Harry closed his eyes against the onslaught of pleasure — the tightness of his balls, the gasp of his hole, the feeling of Louis  _ all over  _ him. It all forced him to release a litany of curses, most of them aimed at Louis’ clever hands and the wonder of his body.

“You are wet, my love, but not wet enough,” Louis whispered, reaching for the phial of oil that he had used to open himself. He dribbled it over the expanse of Harry’s mercilessly hard cock and went back to pulling him off, slowly, tenderly.

“Stop, stop, my love. I will not last, I will not —” 

Louis stopped, thank the holy virgin, but not before reaching between Harry’s legs and fondling his bollocks with slippery fingers. Harry cried out, the sensation so  _ good _ , so deeply intimate. Louis always knew how to make him fall apart. He was the master at it. And Harry loved him fiercely for it. 

“I —” Harry began but was quickly silenced when Louis clambered over him so he could straddle him, the thickness of his thighs pressing against Harry’s hips, making his hands itch to dig his fingers into the flesh, to imprint himself in some way, to leave something of himself behind so Louis could feel him on him,  _ with  _ him, the next day. 

“I’m ready for you, my darling,” Louis said, fucking his tongue deep into Harry’s mouth, making Harry buck up into the heat of Louis’ body involuntarily.

Louis’ hands wandered down to Harry’s nipples, and he drew such pleasure with his ministrations from deep within Harry, every twist, every pinch like a bright, burning spark that threatened Harry’s sanity. Louis’ eyes twinkled down at Harry and Harry wanted to kiss the mischief away, make Louis understand how desperately Harry needed him.

Louis was writhing on top of him, Harry’s cock slipping between his cheeks and rubbing against the delicate, rose colored skin of his entrance. Harry felt nothing but arousal burning inside of him, the flames rising higher and higher, heating his soul, scorching his skin with every press of Louis’ body on his. 

“I do not wish to hurt you my love.” Harry broke away, breathless and so, so in love with the man on top of him. Harry was aware that he was a lot to take in one go, and worried that Louis had been hasty in his preparations.

“You can’t. You won’t.” 

Louis looked at him determinedly and reached behind himself to grab Harry’s prick. He rubbed the head over his entrance and Harry shuddered, moaning loudly. 

“Lou —” The words died in Harry’s throat.

It was good. So, so  _ good _ . 

“Shh.” 

“Your — your kilt.” Harry grabbed for the thick woolen fabric but Louis shook his head vehemently.

“Want it on. Wanna — get dirty for you.”

“Oh God, oh my God,” Harry prayed to the ceiling, not sure what he did in this life or the last to deserve such a treasure, but he wasn’t one to question the gifts bestowed upon him. 

Louis pushed backward, the head of Harry’s wet cock breaching him with a soft, suctioned snap. “Oh fecking hell,” Harry cursed, his vision narrowing a bit as the stars of pleasure exploded in his head.

“Nngh,” Louis groaned, pushing down slowly, blessedly slow, until he was fully seated on Harry’s lap. 

Harry trembled with the effort it took not to pull out and thrust roughly inside the tight heat of him. 

“Wait —” Louis said breathlessly. “Wait for me.”

“Always,” Harry said, not sure if he could manage, but he would try, fervently, to do anything Louis requested of him.

Louis stared down at him, his blue eyes burning in the dusky light of the unlit room, the servants hadn’t even stoked a fire yet or lit candles. Like this, on top of him, taking control, Louis was a vision. It made Harry delirious with lust, with a deep-seated need to surrender to the other man. He wanted to feel Louis’ pleasure, wanted to be the one to give it to him. Wanted to let Louis take what he wanted and feel how much Harry loved him while he did it.

Louis slid up and down on Harry’s cock, the rigid length of him impaling Louis obscenely. Louis moaned loudly, the sound of it filthy and doing nothing to help delay Harry’s release. The pressure was tight and nearly too much. Louis spasmed with every pass and started to move quicker, more assuredly and this,  _ this  _ was the moment Harry loved. The moment when Louis let go and just...exacted his own pleasure.

Harry could hardly breathe, Louis was so beautiful, so radiant. So  _ alive _ .

“My love….I —” Louis was bouncing now, squeezing around Harry in such a way that Harry wasn’t sure his cock would ever be the same.

“Come,” Harry beckoned and Louis slid down so that Harry went deeper and he clawed at Harry’s chest, letting out a husky mewl that Harry felt in his toes. “Kiss me, let me show you how much I missed you.”

Louis opened his mouth and let Harry take it in a tornado of deep, wet kisses. It was then that Harry gripped Louis’ hips with firm hands and started to grind up into his lover’s body. Louis exhaled a shaky sigh, almost as if he were grateful for the way Harry fucked into him, slowly bringing their movements back into equilibrium. The two of them giving and taking, fucking and being fucked, moving like they were made for each other. 

Deeper, deeper and then faster, faster, with a precision that came with making love to someone many times over many, many years, since they were boys, really, Harry pushed up into the lush heat of Louis’ arse, whispering how much he loved, adored him. Louis moaned and cried out with practically every push of Harry’s cock to that place deep inside of him and Harry worked harder — wanting to hear it again and again.

“Harry, I’m —” 

Harry felt an incredible surge of moisture and heat flood the space between them, as Louis released. Louis’ kilt was high enough around his waist that his cock had been trapped between their bellies. 

“Oh God, my Lord!” Louis yelled out, shuddering as he continued his release. 

Harry took that as permission and he undulated his hips, thrusting deep and fast no more than three times and then he was filling Louis.  

“Ah, God in heaven!” Harry shouted, his whole body succumbing to the mind numbing pleasure.

He felt as if he spilled inside Louis for ages, but it was only a few moments of blinding ecstasy, the loss of which Harry would mourn soon after. 

It was the time afterward that Harry truly treasured. Their skin cooling, sweat drying on their spent bodies, the mess of their release connecting them in ways that nothing else could. Those were his favorite moments — Louis in his arms, his lips still wet from Harry’s kiss, their love like a sacred bond, shared only between them, to be severed by no man. By no sword.

“You are my only,” Louis said simply, his mouth moving against Harry’s chest.

Harry smoothed a rough hand over the silk of Louis’ back. “And you,” Harry whispered, “air mo hame.”  _ My home. _

“Wherever you are,” Louis replied, “I, too, am home.”

Harry smiled against Louis’ sweat soaked hair and felt settled, anchored again. 

It was good to be home. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so, so much for reading. I hope you liked it. Please leave a note and let me know what you think. xx


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